Chapter Fifty-Five: Solid as Stone, Smooth as Porcelain

The surge of cloud energy burst forth so swiftly, the sword was drawn so quickly, that most people saw only the eruption of flames and heard a shouted command to stop—then, a head rolled to the ground.

“Pull back!”

Some among the Shu Path reacted with speed, realizing that the suddenly appearing young man moved with a ghostly swiftness and excelled at close combat, so they all retreated.

Yun Qi looked toward the twelve who had just been separated. Including Hai Jinqi, four already lay on the ground—struck down by flying swords that had either slit their throats or pierced their chests—beyond saving.

Grief weighed on Yun Qi’s heart, but he had no time to dwell in it. He quickly considered his options: these Shu Path cultivators moved freely in the miasma, utterly unaffected, and the woman with the flaming sword had yet to appear. Though his own side had numbers, they were at a disadvantage.

“Forget the bodies for now. Hide yourselves and cover me with arrows! Be wary—there may still be others lying in wait!”

Yun Qi spoke rapidly.

The eight who had landed behind Yun Qi were surprised by his command, but chose to trust him. Taking advantage of the Shu Path’s retreat, the eight swiftly regrouped with those who had just been ambushed and melted back into the poisonous fog.

Yun Qi, meanwhile, would become the beacon in the open, the one to light the way. He pinched a talisman between his fingers, cast it into the air, pointed at it, and intoned,

“Shine!”

Instantly, the talisman burst into flame—transparent, yet tinged with a warm shade of ginger yellow. The fire danced across the paper, but it seemed illusory; the paper was not truly burning, yet the light it cast was real, dispersing the miasma and illuminating precisely where the seven Shu Path cultivators stood.

Hidden in the fog, the Miao people let out suppressed but gleeful low laughter. Yes, this was how they had been slaughtered before: the female thief wielded her flaming sword, lighting up the battlefield, while the other bandits lurked in the fog, launching sneak attacks with flying swords.

Now, it was their turn.

A dozen Miao fighters spread out around the Shu Path. Though they had no flying swords, they had talisman arrows. When they had left the stronghold earlier, Master Cheng had handed out all the remaining talisman arrows!

Some fired crossbows, others threw by hand. The talisman arrows, charged with hatred, shot from the fog toward the illuminated Shu Path.

But these seven were by no means ordinary, just as the old abbot had said; a sharp, commanding presence radiated from them. They leapt and dodged the arrows, moving as a fluid formation, watching each other’s backs.

If not for their earlier overconfidence and failure to form up, Yun Qi might not have seized the initiative to kill one so quickly.

Four of them adopted a defensive stance, warding off talisman arrows and the Miao people’s arcane arts; the other three pressed the attack. Each formed sword seals with their hands, chanting under their breath, controlling flying swords that stabbed through the air toward Yun Qi—the one holding the illuminating fire talisman, the true threat.

Now Yun Qi saw the flying swords clearly.

All of them were of the same make, not long—about two feet each—with a silvery, dazzling sheen.

Yet none had a crossguard; the blade and hilt were directly joined, and the hilt was short—grippable, but not easily so. Though the flying swords were sharp, the spiritual power of these first-level Shu Path adepts was limited; their swords struck straight on, lacking variation.

Yun Qi moved with the pace of the Dipper Steps, treading the astral chart, twisting his body to narrowly evade the first volley of flying swords. As the last sword grazed his shoulder, he turned and tapped its blade with “Autumn Water.”

A crisp metallic ring sounded.

He studied the point of “Autumn Water” and the mark left on the flying sword, feeling the force transmitted back through the blade—Yun Qi now understood the composition of these Shu Path swords.

Sharp as they were, they were also brittle. If he could avoid the sword tips and strike the flat with a lateral blow, he could damage them.

With this knowledge, Yun Qi grew bolder, closing the distance. At close range, the flying swords lost their advantage; their buildup time was short, and their turning radius smaller—making them seem slower and clumsier in Yun Qi’s eyes.

Whenever a flying sword drew near, he sidestepped with expert footwork or knocked it aside with “Autumn Water” striking the spine.

To the Shu Path adepts and the Miao people, Yun Qi’s maneuvers seemed almost unbelievable.

These were not famed blades, and they were but junior disciples—but if their flying swords could be struck so easily, how could the Shu Mountains boast their reputation? And if they could be struck so easily, how could over a hundred Miao people have perished here?

The Shu Path adepts grew more unsettled, the Miao fighters’ spirits soared. Distracted by the need to dodge arrows and maintain formation, the Shu Path adepts lost focus; their divided attention faltered their control, and Yun Qi dodged with increasing ease.

Before long, he was actively seeking out the flying swords, tapping them with “Autumn Water” as lightly as a dragonfly touching water.

A series of crisp rings sounded, almost like chimes.

After several dozen exchanges, another flying sword darted toward him. This time, Yun Qi did not evade. His right hand held his sword behind his back, his left formed a seal, pointed at the sword, and chanted,

“Shatter!”

A rush of magic fell on the sword, which cracked audibly and broke into seven or eight pieces that clattered to the ground.

Each time Yun Qi struck a flying sword, the three Shu Path adepts crossing swords with him grew paler. Now, as one of their flying swords shattered, the adept’s mind recoiled as if struck by lightning. He coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed to his knees.

But at that moment, to fall meant departing from their constantly shifting formation.

Yun Qi’s eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he switched incantations; he held nothing back. He pointed straight at the collapsed man and intoned,

“Incinerate!”

Golden threads of smoke, nearly invisible in the miasma, drifted gently as if they would vanish at the slightest breeze. Yet these ethereal threads moved swiftly and unerringly landed on the Shu Path adept. There was no sound—only a violent burst of fire, golden flames erupting from his body.

In a flash, the fire engulfed him; the Shu Path adept never even had time to scream.

The flames burned silently. The Shu Path adepts stared, dumbstruck, at the mass of fire, momentarily forgetting to move, and the Miao archers, too, forgot to shoot.

“Shatter!”

Unmoved, Yun Qi chanted again.

With a soft crack, another flying sword—stabbing uncontrollably through the air toward Yun Qi—splintered into fragments. The sound was light, not so much a chime as the delicate snap of Ru ware emerging from the kiln.

“Ah!”

Unlike before, this time the Shu Path adept, though coughing blood, dared not collapse. Forcing himself to his feet, he ran about in panic, terrified that flames would descend from above.

His cry jolted everyone awake. Another Shu Path adept hurriedly recalled his sword, and their formation dissolved into chaos.

The Miao people, returning to their senses, resumed their volley.

“Li Xiaozu! Please, show yourself and save us!”

Several Shu Path adepts huddled together, shouting in desperation.

“How foolish—you keep pressing the attack with flying swords, though your weakness is laid bare. Don’t you deserve to die?”

A cold, clear female voice echoed through the fog.